


Stay

by emmbright



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 11:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4959691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbright/pseuds/emmbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers: Paper Clip, Closure, Per Manum, This is Not Happening</p>
<p>He lost Mulder by not paying attention; he won't lose her the same way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay

Skinner squints against the glare of oncoming headlights, fiercely gripping the steering wheel as the windshield wipers make feeble slaps against the glass in front of him. He imagines a hundred stormy nights like this one, thunder rumbling through some rental car's seats, Scully's delicate profile burning itself onto Mulder's peripheral vision as lightning flashes around them. He can picture the two of them riding in silence through some small town or other, down some long stretch of endless highway, but beyond that the picture grows blurry and indistinct.

He has lived on the fringes of their insular world for years, but he still can't speak with certainty about what they were to each other. At first Scully's pregnancy seemed a sign they were more than partners and friends, but since the fiasco at the army hospital he's become less certain. Scully hasn't said a word to him either way, and he can't bring himself to ask.

He sighs and lets up on the gas, slowing the car to a crawl as he struggles to keep between the lines on the road. The rain is following them -- a harsh storm all too appropriate to his mood. Mulder's funeral was held in the pouring rain this morning, the cold front predicted for Sunday pushing through a day early, just in time to soak the scanty crowd surrounding the grave, leaving them shivering in the bitter wind. Scully hadn't cried when he'd given his eulogy, or when Frohike had attempted to speak, unable to finish because of his tears.

When she sniffles from the passenger seat beside him he knows without looking that she isn't crying now, either. He hasn't seen her shed a tear since the night they found Mulder's body, and he doesn't expect to be allowed to see any more. He's afraid that whatever tentative closeness they developed during months of searching ended in the Montana woods. Scully closed herself off the moment he lifted her boneless body from the dusty floor of the compound, since then barely speaking to him unless it was about the case, and even then with the fewest words possible. He can't help feeling stung by her terseness, wondering if she regrets letting her guard down with him, embarrassed by some imagined weakness.

He was surprised when she agreed to ride with him to and from Raleigh, but didn't let himself question it for long. Their hours in the car may be dragging on, silent and tense, but at least she's not driving home alone in this storm. He lost Mulder by not paying attention; he won't lose her the same way.

Scully sniffles again and he reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket, fumbling for his handkerchief with one hand while trying to keep control of the car with the other. She's getting a cold, he thinks peevishly -- one more misery heaped upon her during this goddamned miserable week. Blue-black smudges beneath her eyes tell him she hasn't slept, and he hasn't seen her eat anything in days, though he assumes she must have. He is turning into a mother hen where she's concerned, but the impulse to take care of her is too strong for him to resist. He wants her to know how sorry he feels, but if he tries to find the words he'll disintegrate before her eyes. So he hovers and tends to her, hoping she'll understand.

Scully blows her nose and returns his handkerchief, then turns her head to stare out the window, looking up at the sky. She is searching, he's sure, for the stars hidden by the thick clouds above them. "Take me to Alexandria," she says. "There's something I need to do at the apartment."

She can't even bring herself to say his apartment.

"Scully...Dana. It's been such a long day. Why not go home, get some rest. You can do whatever you need to do tomorrow or the next day." He glances over to see her face as she turns back to him. The streetlights cast shadows of raindrops over her cheeks, like tracks of unshed tears.

"Please. I need to be there."

She's been staying at Mulder's apartment all week, since they returned from Montana until they left for Raleigh yesterday; he supposes one more night can't hurt. Besides, he reminds himself, he's not her keeper. She can do as she pleases. He nods sadly and turns his attention back to the road, heading for Alexandria.

The rain slows from a deluge to a steady downpour as he parks outside Mulder's apartment building -- a small blessing for which he's grateful as he pulls Scully's travel-battered suitcase from the trunk and walks her to the front door of the building beneath his black umbrella. Scully pulls her keychain from her coat pocket and finds Mulder's key easily, sliding it into the keyhole and pushing the door open, releasing a loud whoosh of dry, heater-warmed air.

"Will you come in?" she asks. "I think there's some tea."

Skinner shakes his head, unable to play along with her ingrained politeness. "Thanks, no. I should probably get home before the storm gets worse again, and you need to rest. Eat something, okay? And get some sleep."

He's about to hand her the suitcase and walk away when she reaches out and lightly grasps his forearm in her small hand. "Please stay," she says in the scared, little-girl voice she used when she woke him last week, afraid of her dreams. "I don't think I can go up there alone. Not tonight."

Tenderness and remorse wash over him as he looks down at her pale fingers on his arm and realizes how eager he'd been to leave. "Okay," he says, slowly nodding his head. "Okay."

Before they get in the elevator Skinner shakes the water from his umbrella, and Scully stops to check Mulder's mail in the foyer, fumbling with the jumble of bulk rate envelopes and catalogs stuffed inside the small box. Skinner marvels for the hundredth time at her presence of mind, at her attention to detail, at her ability to cope. She has spent the last week in a whirlwind of activity, insisting on interviewing Teresa Hoese and the others at the cult compound, on examining Mulder's body herself, not trusting him to anyone else and vehemently denying those who wanted him autopsied. She arranged for the funeral in Raleigh and coordinated the others who were also traveling there, always refusing the help they offered.

He has seen her clinging to control before -- after her abduction, after her sister's murder, during her cancer. He finds himself awestruck and terrified at the same time, afraid he will be there when the dam inside her breaks, and just as afraid that he won't be.

The apartment is cold and dark, and the lemony smell of cleaning products assaults him as they enter the room. The last time he was here the place was a dusty mess; Scully must have spent the last few days cleaning, on top of everything else.

"I'll make the tea," Scully says, switching on a lamp and shrugging out of her coat. She tosses it on the coat rack before walking into the kitchen, the clack of her shoes echoing in the silence.

Skinner hangs his trench coat beside hers, and puts his umbrella and Scully's suitcase on the floor. Wearily, he collapses on the couch and listens to Scully busying herself in the kitchen -- rinsing cups, filling the kettle, opening and closing cabinets in search of the tea he's sure neither of them wants. Anything to keep herself in motion. Anything to keep from confronting the void left in this place.

Skinner lets his eyes roam over the room. He can't help remembering another time he and Scully were alone here, the first time they'd feared Mulder was dead. She hadn't trusted him then, and the terror and loathing in her eyes as she pointed a gun at his head is a painfully vivid memory. Some lonely, selfish part of him, a part whose existence he can barely stand to acknowledge, is glad for the changes that circumstances have brought into their relationship these past months. Though he would give anything to have Mulder burst through the front door right now as he did years ago, he can't help finding a perverse satisfaction in receiving a portion of Scully's trust.

As Scully returns to the room with two steaming mugs of tea, Skinner's eyes land on the aquarium, glowing eerily in the corner of the room. A goldfish is floating belly-up in the murky water, bits of its flesh beginning to flake away. The other fish hover nearby, darting close to pick at it with their gaping mouths. Their eyes are huge, unblinking; he's never before realized how strange they look. How alien.

Scully tracks his wandering gaze and sees the fish, and before he can say anything she slams the mugs down on the coffee table in front of him, sending tea sloshing over the sides and onto her hands. She's beside the tank in a flash, plunging her hand into the water, scooping up the corpse and sending the scavengers scurrying away.

"I forgot to feed the fish. I forgot all about them," she says, quiet but panicked. Skinner has to strain to hear her voice above the aquarium's hum and the rain beating against the windows. Scully turns to him with wide, empty eyes, wanting something from him -- what, he's not sure. Forgiveness? Comfort? He feels at a loss, as he has for months.

"You had so much on your mind...it's just a fish," he says, watching her as she bows her head and gazes at the mangled body in her trembling palm. He doesn't know what to say so he says anything, words spilling stupidly from his mouth. "You can get another one if you want to keep the tank. And this one lived a long time for a fish. I don't know how-"

"Look what they did to it!" She interrupts harshly, ignoring his ridiculous babbling, or else oblivious to the sound of his voice. Her pale face is lit by the tank's garish light. "God damn them, they picked the poor thing apart." Glassy-eyed, she examines the goldfish, stroking it with the index finger of her other hand as if cataloging its injuries. Memorizing the injustices done to it, just as she'd done for Mulder's mutilated body.

"Please, please, don't." He's ashamed by how frightened he is, by how helpless he feels watching Scully come unhinged.

Her face crumples and she begins to cry, her barely-intelligible words escaping between quiet, hitching sobs. "They tortured him...for their fucking tests...left him out there to die in the cold...oh God, Mulder...in the cold..."

Skinner stares, stunned and motionless, as Scully doubles over with a moan that seems to claw its way up from the depths of her soul, ripping its way out of her throat. She collapses to the floor and he finally manages to move toward her, hearing the thud of her knees against wood just before the room fills with her violent, wracking sobs. The sound is primal, visceral; he can hardly reconcile the wretched noise in his ears with the tiny woman huddled on the floor.

His knees crack as he kneels in front of her, stiff from too many hours spent cramped in the car. Without thinking he pulls her into his arms, holding her tightly to his chest for a long time, rocking her back and forth until at last he feels her relax against him, her sobs subsiding to muffled whimpers. He presses a kiss to the tangle of her hair, still damp from the rain. It leaves a sticky, bitter residue of hair spray on his lips. She doesn't meet his eyes as he pulls away from her, instead staring vacantly at the fish still clutched in her hand. Skinner takes it from her and helps her up from the floor.

"Come here," he says, walking her to the couch and guiding her to sit on the still-dented cushions. "Stay right there. I'll be back in a minute."

Scully nods almost imperceptibly, so he goes to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. He lifts the toilet seat and drops the goldfish into the water with a sickening plop, letting the lid slam shut before flushing the fish and scrubbing his hands with the slimy bar of motel Ivory in the soap dish by the sink.

Scully's hands, he thinks, drying his own on a towel from the neatly folded stack on the shelf. He rummages through drawers in search of a clean washcloth and some burn ointment, pausing when he finds a half-empty box of tampons shoved in the back of a drawer, behind a worn out hairbrush and an unopened box of Q-Tips.

For a moment he's absurdly taken aback by the intimacy of it. They couldn't be anyone's but Scully's, and they had to be months old now, considering her condition. He's surprised at the sharp twinge of something inside him; he already knew, even if he sometimes tried to deny it to himself, even though he's never had definite proof. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration at his own adolescent jealousy.

Finally he finds a tube of ointment in the medicine cabinet and a thin washcloth hanging on the rack behind him. He rinses it in hot water before going back out to Scully, finding her exactly where he left her five minutes ago. Her tears are silent now, sliding over her cheeks and down her neck, leaving a dark ring on the collar of her gray turtleneck. Spots of black dot the front of her shirt.

Skinner sits beside her and hands her the warm washcloth. "Here. You need to wash your hands, and I got something for where you burned yourself."

When Scully just stares at him, he's afraid she's disappeared altogether, retreating into darkness as he saw Mulder do more than once. His relief when she shakes her head and takes the cloth from his hands is so great that he almost heaves a huge, hot sigh of relief right in her face. Scully scrubs at her hands with the rough terrycloth, and when Skinner begins to open the tube of ointment, she takes it from him to do it herself.

"I'm sorry," she says, dabbing cream on the spots of bright red skin on the back of her hands. Her voice is husky and raw.

"There's nothing to be sorry for. You've been so strong for days." He gives her his handkerchief again and she blows her nose and wipes her face.

"I saw him. The night we found him I saw him in my motel room. I glanced away for one second and he was gone." She exhales sharply, part chuff of laughter, part muffled sob, and presses her fingertips to her lips. "He did that to me all the time when he was alive. I guess it's no great leap to think that his spirit would do the same thing."

Skinner reaches for a mug of tea on the table in front of him, the ceramic wet and clammy now. He hands it to Scully, who takes a tiny sip and grimaces at the taste.

"I knew then that he was gone. Even if we'd never found his body, I'd have known. It's like Mulder said once. You can't see someone's ghost and still hope to find them alive." She takes another sip of tea and sets the cup back on the table with a sad smile. "I wonder what he'd say if he knew how often I'm agreeing with him these days."

When she leans back again Skinner wraps his arm around her, and after a moment's hesitation she relaxes, her warmth soaking into his body, comforting him, he's sure, more than he can comfort her.

"I knew Mulder for a long time, Scully, and there's one thing I can tell you for certain. You were everything to him. Knowing you...it changed his life."

He hears her beginning to cry again, sees her dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief still clasped in her hand, but he needs to say the words to her. If he doesn't say them now, he knows they'll never be said.

"This last year I saw something in him. Sometimes it's easier to see things when you're not so close to someone, and I saw a man who was calmer and more at peace about his life than I'd ever seen him before. He found the truth about his sister. And he had you. I don't care what Agent Doggett or Agent Reyes or some supposed medical files say. Mulder was happy in his own way, and nothing can convince me otherwise."

"I hope so," Scully whispers. "I hope you're right." She toes off her shoes and shoves them aside with a stockinged foot before tucking both feet up beside her.

"I am right. You just have to hang on to those memories. And remember, you're not alone. You have your friends. You have me. I'm not going anywhere."

She nods sleepily against his chest. "Good," she murmurs, her eyes fluttering shut. "Good."

"You have your family, too. You have your baby."

"Yes," she mumbles, drifting off. "I have his baby."

She begins to snore softly beside him, her weight a reassuring pressure against his side. With his free arm he reaches for the scratchy Indian blanket draped over the sofa's back, carefully covering her, letting her rest at last.

Watching her sleep, he is mesmerized by her pink, wind-chapped lips, slightly parted as she breathes a damp spot onto his shirt. He wonders if she even realizes what she told him. He wants to believe that she trusts him that much, that despite all she's lost, what remains will be enough to see her through this.

Skinner sighs and gently pulls her closer, fingering a strand of hair that's stuck to her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. Maybe he'll take her into the bedroom in a little while so she can get some sleep in a soft, comfortable bed. But for the moment he needs her there beside him, needs her safe in his arms as the thunder rolls outside.

end

 

I'm deeply grateful to Pteropod and Maria Nicole, whose beta reading and advice made all the difference.


End file.
